


Soon We'll Be Found

by Adolescently



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, James Potter Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-13 22:35:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5719567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adolescently/pseuds/Adolescently
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which James Potter's mother uses Polyjuice potion to take her son's place on Halloween, 1981. Thirteen years later, an escaped Sirius Black runs into him on a remote island – and finds he has no memory of his previous life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Basically, Mrs Potter pulls the old take-some-polyjuice-potion-and-die-in-your-son's-place, rather like Barty Crouch Jr's mother. Classic move, y'know.
> 
> I started writing this a while ago, and came back to it yesterday. Maybe someone will enjoy this, but it's pretty much self indulgent nonsense, so if not that's fine. More to come, probably, although I can't guarantee when. :)

It was cruel, she knew that.  
  
It was wrong to take his place. To take away his family, his memories, his agency. But to stand by and allow him to lose his life? She could never do that. Polyjuice potion took a long time to brew, and every day was another day that her son and his family could be betrayed. The Fidelius charm wasn't foolproof, was only as strong as the will of James' friends. Voldemort would find them eventually.  
  
She wouldn't let him die. She wouldn't.  
  
Herself, however? There was nothing left for her but this. Her husband was dead – not from the war, but from illness, of all things. The irony of fighting a war, battling to stay alive when even the strongest of wizards could be taken down by _dragon pox_ -  
  
When she closed her eyes he was there, as still and cold as the day he died. Maybe she'd join him soon.  
  
In the end, it was a week before Halloween by the time the potion was ready. James and Lily and their dear, tiny child – her grandson – had been in hiding for months. The plan would be tricky to put into action, but in the end she made contact with her son through Sirius, and a meeting was arranged.  
  
Their home was beautiful. Lily must have decorated it; Merlin knew her son had the most awful taste. Pictures lined the walls – photographs of the family, of Harry and Lily and James and Sirius and Remus and even Peter, who had always struck her as an odd one but who she had welcomed nonetheless. She stood in the warmth of the living room, staring into the orange of the fire until it burned itself onto the back of her retinas and the sound of soft footsteps reached her ears. Stomach churning, the flask sitting heavy in the pocket of her robes, she turned to greet her son.  
  
“Mum!” He wrapped her his arms – strong arms, and where was the scrawny eleven-year-old she had seen off to school all those years ago? - and smiled. She smiled back, tears welling in her eyes as she stepped back to get a good look at him.  
  
Dark circles beneath his eyes, hair dishevelled, a restlessness about him that made her feel twitchy – the war had been rough on James Potter. “Hello, sweetheart.” She glanced around. “Where's Lily?”  
  
His smile widened, eyes lighting up. “Upstairs, with Harry.”  
  
Harry. It felt as though something had lodged itself in her chest. He was just a baby. She had met him only once before James and Lily had gone into hiding, but he was the most perfect child she had seen since the birth of her own. A real person, tiny and helpless. The day he was born he had hardly cried at all, huge green eyes just staring up at them all, pink fingers grasping at his mother's long, red hair.  
  
Why would anyone want to kill a _child_?  
  
Still, although James would not be here to protect his child, she would. She would defend that child, and his mother, to her dying breath. And if it all worked out, if Voldemort was somehow defeated (and she did not dare to hope, not even in the privacy of her own mind), then she would make sure James was returned.  
  
But until that day, there was work to be done.  
  
One hand slipped into her pocket, fingers closing around her wand as she brought the other hand up to stroke her son's face. Blinking back tears, she moved her hand back to his hair and, with a sharp tug, pulled out a few strands.  
  
“Ow! Merlin, Mum, what was that-”  
  
But her wand was already out, pointed squarely at James' indignant face.  
  
His eyes darkened, and he reached for his wand. “You're not my mother.” She could see the cogs in his mind whirling as he tried to figure it out – Polyjuice potion, the imperius curse maybe? This wasn't really her, surely.  
  
Tears spilled down her cheeks at last. “Not any more,” she whispered. “Obliviate.”  
  


* * *

  
A tropical bird soared off into the bright blue sky, a letter from Sirius Black clutched in its talons. The man himself shook his head as he watched it go. “Must be mad." Owls were the best delivery birds, everyone knew that. A wild tropical bird, well, it was just as likely to drop his letter in the ocean as it was to bring it to Harry. Still, it wasn't like he could just stroll off down to the local post office.  
  
Letter now taken care of, he closed his eyes and settled back in the sand, sun warming his face. It had been too long since he'd felt real sun. Azkaban had been stormy and grey, so cold it seeped into your bones and your very soul. He shuddered.  
  
No. He was free now. The thought warmed him to the core, even with the knowledge that he was still on the run, still guilty of a crime he hadn't committed. It wasn't real freedom, but it was good enough. Better than he had ever hoped for during the long years in Azkaban.  
  
And he had seen Harry again. A smile stretched across his face, muscles that hadn't been used in years aching at the motion. Harry. His godson, the only thing left of Lily and James. He had been so close to having him again, to being able to protect him... The loss stung, but he knew that he would see Harry again, and that letters were enough for now, and that Pettigrew was still out there. Some day he would be truly free.  
  
He opened his eyes and watched the waves lap at the shore. He didn't even know what the island was called – it was tiny, with a population so low that any newcomers were noticed at once. Thankfully, a place so remote had had no contact with wizarding Britain lately, and knew nothing of Sirius' escape. The Ministry of Magic likely thought he was still in the UK, wouldn't have sent word to the rest of the world just yet. He was safe here.  
  
A hand slipped into his pocket, fingers wrapping themselves around the stolen wand to assure himself it was still there. Apparating had been rough, and he had lost himself two fingernails to the attempt, but it could have been far worse.  
  
He stayed there for a while, basking in the warmth, enjoying the gritty feel of the sand beneath him and the cooling sea breeze. Eventually, though, he began to feel restless, like his bones would twitch right out of his skin if he stayed still for too long. Another change that Azkaban had wrought. Would he ever forget it?  
  
Shaking his head clear of such thoughts, Sirius shot to his feet. A walk around the island would do him good. He had been here a few days, and he was beginning to find his way around well – although since the island was no more than three miles from coast to coast, this was no great achievement. Sirius strode away from the water's edge, feet slipping in the sand as he left the beach. He would have done better as Padfoot, but after so much time spent forced into his animagus form he was enjoying the freedom of standing on two feet.  
  
The further inland he got, the more he began to see people. They were friendly enough, smiling at him and greeting him in their language – at least, he hoped whatever they said was a greeting, since he had been repeating it back to them, the words clunky and awkward when he spoke them. He had seen a few beautiful woman, dark hair shining in the sunlight, who had stirred up a little of his old charm. Sadly, there was both the language barrier and the fact that he was a convicted criminal and looked it to keep him from approaching them. Still, it was nice. In Azkaban nothing was beautiful.  
  
The village itself couldn't have housed more than a few hundred people; he knew his presence had been noted, assumed there had been talk, but he had done his best to be friendly and unobtrusive. All he wanted was to be left in peace, although if he was going to be here a while he could probably stand to learn the language. He felt like such a tourist.  
  
He was a little breathless by the time he reached the centre of the village, where the well was. The village itself had modern plumbing, but the well was a quaint remnant of a bygone era that Sirius rather liked. He sat himself down, tried to catch his breath. Merlin, he was so unfit these days. Years of eating almost nothing and sitting in a cell day and night would do that to a man. If James could see him now, clutching the stitch in his side like an old man... The familiar pang of _ohGodJamesisgone_ that knocked the air from his lungs did nothing to help him regain his breath.  
  
Some days he thought the pain of losing his best friends would never go away. Other days, he knew it. Did Harry miss them as much as he did? Was that even possible, to miss anyone as much as Sirius missed James and Lily? He carried the guilt of killing them with him every single day. It pressed on his shoulders, weighing him down, crushed his chest and his spirit and left him alone as the sun set, wishing he could start his life all over.  
  
Sirius glanced up from the dusty ground and tried to shake his head clear. He squinted into the sun, wishing he had thought to sit with his back to it but too lazy to move, and watched the world go by. It was a slow Wednesday – was it Wednesday? It was hard to keep track here – afternoon, with only a few of the older villagers going about their business. The children would be out of school in a few hours and the village would be full of laughter and shrieking and the stampeding of feet, but for now it was quiet, and Sirius was content to sit back and watch.  
  
A flash of messy black hair made Sirius' heart catch in his throat. James. He crushed the hope before it could flare up further. That had been happening ever since he had escaped Azkaban. He saw his friends everywhere. The man with the glasses at the bus stop was James, the flash of red hair in a crowded city was Lily. And then there was Harry. The scrawny teenager with his father's hair and his mother's eyes was enough to break a man's heart. He was a wonder and a nightmare all at once; Sirius couldn't tear his eyes away from Harry but all at once he never wanted to see him again, wanted to forget the Potters had ever existed.  
  
He blinked, rubbed the sun from his eyes, but the man walking across the village square still bore such a striking resemblance to his best friend that it hurt. Although tanned, he was clearly white – he wasn't from here. A pair of glasses framed his eyes, although from this distance he couldn’t tell their colour, and his frame was just like James' – muscular but, he was willing to bet, just a few inches shorter than Sirius himself. His black hair seemed to have a mind of its own, and even as Sirius watched the man reached up and ran his hand through it.  
  
Before he knew what he was doing, Sirius was on his feet, walking towards the man. His hand grabbed the man's arm, seemingly of its own accord, and he heard himself say, “James?” muffled and strange, as if he were listening from underwater.  
  
The man met his gaze, and Sirius found himself reeling as though he had been punched. Ears ringing, he didn't hear the man's confused response; he wouldn't have understood it anyway, and he didn't need it. This was James. He would know him anywhere. Even thirteen years after the man's death, he knew James' face better than his own.  
  
“James,” he choked out. James was clearly alarmed now, trying to pull his arm free, saying something more urgently in that language Sirius didn't understand, fuck, he needed to understand. Before he knew what was happening, there was a wand pointed at him. James' eyes were dark with anger and confusion as he snapped something foreign, the words rolling from his tongue as though it were his first language, but Sirius couldn't stop himself. Tears welled in his eyes. “Prongs,” he said, and could have sworn the man's expression flickered into something – something other, just for a second. “Please. I know it's you, please.”  
  
The man's expression softened at this, and his wand lowered. Still though, he was tense, uncomfortable. He didn't understand, and neither did Sirius. This was James. He knew it. He would know him anywhere. He was older, sure, and more tanned than the James he knew could ever have hoped for in rainy Godric's Hollow, but it was James.  
  
The only question was, for lack of anything more eloquent, _what the fuck?_  
  
“Who are you?”  
  
The English surprised him, and it shouldn't have. This was James, of course he could speak English. The words were a little awkward, the accent faded, but at his voice Sirius crumbled. Legs shaking too much to support him, Sirius let himself sink to his knees. It was where he belonged, anyway. On the ground at James' feet, begging for his forgiveness, pleading for him to say it wasn't his fault, he hadn't killed Lily, even though they both knew it was, and he had. Tears fell at last and all he could say was, “I'm _sorry_ , James. P-please.”  
  
“I don't-” A hand leapt to his hair, a motion so inherently James that it hurt. “I think you have me confused with someone else. I'm sorry.” The man held out his hand, tried to help Sirius to his feet, but Sirius just stared at it. Was this his punishment? For James to be alive but forever cut off from him, pretending not to know who he was? Had he broken things so beyond repair? Sirius knew he had, had known for thirteen years that there was no redemption for him, but to have it confirmed was still a horror.  
  
“Please, James.” His voice shook, the first sob finally breaking free.  
  
“Look, I don't know who you are. I'm sorry. Maybe you should just- look, come up to my house, have a drink or something. We'll get you sorted out,” said James, placing a hand on Sirius' shoulder that made him shake all the more.  
  
Again, though, his body seemed to move of its own accord, and he found himself rising to his feet. The short trip to James' house didn't feel real. His head swam – oh Merlin, he was going to pass out. He was going to pass out and James would leave him lying on the ground where he belonged and Sirius would wake up alone and he'd never find James ever again and Harry would never meet him and he would have, once again, let down everyone he loved, oh Merlin-  
  
“Now, then.” The man sat down on his sofa, indicated that Sirius should join him. He began to pour out two cups of tea – where had that come from? Had Sirius really been standing numbly in the living room of this small, unfamiliar house for so long? Sinking down onto the sofa, he took the tea that was offered to him and, on autopilot, stirred in two lumps of sugar. “Who is it you think I am? Maybe I can help you find them.”  
  
He really didn't remember. The realisation slapped Sirius in the face. It wasn't James punishing him – and he should have known, James would never be so cruel. James Potter made damn sure you knew when you had let him down, never let you off the hook by just ignoring you. This man had no idea he was James Potter.  
  
“I think,” he said slowly, taking his wand in hand, “you already have.” He didn't raise his wand, though, and the incantation stuck in his throat.  
  
Maybe this wasn't the right thing to do. Reversing a memory charm was a delicate piece of magic, and Sirius was rusty with the most basic of spells. And even if he succeeded – what then? He was bringing James back to a world where his wife was dead and his best friend had spent twelve years in Azkaban after another of his friends had betrayed them. With a choice like that, Sirius would rather have stayed blissfully ignorant.  
  
But then there was Harry.  
  
The boy had been on his mind ever since he'd left the country, and now he was back at the forefront. Harry needed a father. There was no way Sirius could ever face him again, knowing James was alive and he had done nothing to bring the two of them together. And there was no one else to do this. He was alone, on the run, and he couldn't risk bringing Dumbledore here – what if he lost James before he arrived? The headmaster would never believe James was alive, anyway, would think Sirius had lost his mind.  
  
No. It had to be him.  
  
With shaking hands, James Potter staring at him with something like fear, Sirius raised his wand and reversed the memory charm.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> after nearly a two year absence i pounded this out in like two hours. that's how i roll unfortunately, but luckily this is still self-indulgent garbage, so  
> if i manage to tap out future chapters you KNOW harry's gonna get involved at some point, that's what this is all about  
> apologies to the folks whose comments i didn't respond to and now feel awkward responding to a year and a half later, y'all are the real mvps and i love you your comments mean so much to me!

“I don’t understand.”

“You and me both!” Sirius’ voice had taken on a slightly hysterical tone. “Let’s try this again.”

James gave him a look of deepest condescension, but there was panic in his eyes. “I think we’ve covered it, Sirius! I don’t remember how I got here, okay?”

“And you’re sure it was your mum who Obliviated you?”

“It sure looked like her!”

“Yeah, well your body sure looked like you, in fact” – Sirius cut himself off here, partly to avoid choking on the memory of seeing his best friend’s corpse, partly because a horrible idea had struck him. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t even considered it before now, too distracted and delighted and disgusted by the idea of James being alive, but – well, what if it wasn’t really James? It probably wasn’t. After all, what was more likely: that James Potter had been Obliviated and replaced by his own mother, or that someone today was attempting to impersonate him?

Only… well, it wouldn’t be much good trying to impersonate James on some island hundreds if not thousands of miles from the UK. Who would even recognise him? Had it been a trap for Sirius? How could they have known Sirius would come here?

Not-James sat down again, running a hand through his hair. Sirius flinched away at the motion. Whoever this was had James down pat, but there was a sinking certainty in his stomach. No way this was James.

“In fact what?” Not-James stared at him. His face bore the bewildered expression of a lost child.

Sirius swallowed. He couldn’t let Not-James know he didn’t believe him. Not yet. Sirius didn’t care if he was killed, but this man was probably after Harry, and he couldn’t let that happen. “Nothing. I just…” He looked down at his shaking hands. “Nothing about this makes sense.”

Was it possible he had altered the man’s memories himself? Maybe he had wanted James back so badly that he had forced new memories into an innocent man’s mind. Could that be done? Sirius thought he might puke on Not-James’ polished hardwood floor.

“We need to call Dumbledore,” he said, fighting to keep his voice from quaking.

Not-James’ expression cleared slightly. “Should we owl him?”

Sirius shook his head. “An owl would take too long. We need to Floo him. Only, well… I’m on the run, I can’t go sticking my head out of his fireplace. What if he’s not alone?”

“On the _run_?”

“We can talk about that later. How are we going to contact Dumbledore?”

“On the- okay, fine. You need to tell me everything, though. I guess I can call Dumbledore.”

“He thinks you’re dead! Everyone does, you’ll give the old man a heart attack!”

“Well, what do you suggest?”

Sirius sighed heavily. Not for the first time, he wished wizards were in the habit of using phones. He had observed their use during his time on the run, and Lily had introduced him to them a lifetime ago. “Wizards are really behind the times, you know,” she had said with a laugh. “Phones are so much faster than owls – the closest thing wizards have are patronuses, but not everyone can cast one of them.”

His patronus – of course! Sirius couldn’t remember the last time he had cast a patronus, wasn’t even sure he had a happy memory that would work anymore. Everything was blackened by the shadow of Azkaban, looming heavy over his past and his future. Still, it was their only option – a patronus, at least, would not immediately identify him should Albus not be alone when he received it. After all, few people had heard Sirius’ voice in over twelve years, and fewer still would know his patronus’ form.

“I’ll send him a patronus,” he told Not-James, forcing confidence into his voice. He could do this. He had to do this.

He raised his stolen wand, and cast about for a happy enough memory. When he had seen Harry again, perhaps – the memory was tainted by the escape of Pettigrew, but for a few wonderful hours he had believed he could keep Harry with him, safe and happy. James’ son, living with him. The idea filled him with a certain warmth even as he knew it couldn’t be, not anymore.

“Expecto patronum!” A wisp of silver escaped from the tip of his wand. Sirius clenched his jaw, feeling Not-James’ gaze on him. The patronus charm had never been his forte; there was too much darkness in his past. But he had always been able to do it in the end. He focused on Harry. Pictured his face in his mind – James’ messy black hair, Lily’s striking green eyes. He had to do this for Harry.

“Expecto patronum!” More forcefully, this time, and a silver dog erupted from his wand. It floated before him and Sirius focused his words. “Message for Albus Dumbledore,” he told it, as it pawed at the air beneath its feet. “Albus,” he said, throat suddenly dry. Where to begin? “I need to meet with you, urgently. There’s someone you need to meet. Come to this address as fast as you can.” He reeled off Not-James’ Floo information and sent the dog away with a flick of his wand.

Not-James looked at him. “I want answers.”

Sirius couldn’t meet his gaze. “I- I can’t.” He swallowed. “Dumbledore will be here soon.”

* * *

 Albus Dumbledore was troubled.

This was not unusual, exactly. Men such as Dumbledore – few as they were – often found themselves troubled, shoulders aching with the weight of responsibility. Today it was more than the usual issues that troubled him, however: Albus had received a message from Sirius Black.

The arrival of Sirius’ patronus had come as something of a shock, the abrupt message even more so. Albus twirled his beard around a finger, drummed the fingers of his other hand against his desk. It was dangerous to meet with Sirius, certainly, but it would be more dangerous not to. Sirius had been rash before Azkaban and it was unlikely that the years spent in prison had mellowed this trait. If Albus refused to meet him he had no doubt Sirius would find a way.

In any case, Albus owed him this much. Twelve years spent in Azkaban and he had never once questioned whether the Potters’ most loyal friend – brother, really – might not have betrayed them. Never once had he thought to visit, even, to demand answers of Sirius. He had not hesitated to accept the lie, that Sirius was a traitor and a murderer.

Besides, he could not deny his curiosity. He never had been able to.

Merlin, but he felt old. How many mistakes could one man make before he found himself unable to move, to take another step under the weight of them all?

Albus sighed. There was no more time for such recriminations. There was work to be done. He tossed a handful of powder into the Floo and stepped through.

* * *

 The blaze of green came as a welcome relief from the silence of Not-James’ living room. Sirius had refused to answer any of Not-James’ questions over the last ten minutes, no matter how much he wanted to. Still, he had hoped Dumbledore would arrive soon; James was the only person Sirius had never been able to say no to, fake or no.

Dumbledore stepped from the flames, looking around the small living room with interest. He cut as impressive a figure as Sirius remembered, cloaked in long purple robes. “Sirius, I received your message. What did- ” he stopped, gaze falling on Not-James, who had risen from his seat on the sofa. “My goodness.” Calmly, Dumbledore slipped a hand into his sleeve and drew his wand. “Who are you?”

“It’s- Albus, it’s me,” Not-James said, glancing between the two of them. “It’s James. Potter,” he added, somewhat hesitant.

Dumbledore’s expression hardened in a way Sirius had seen few times before. “James Potter has been dead for thirteen years.”

“I know, but listen- I didn’t- I never- it wasn’t me!” The man ran both hands through his hair. Something lodged itself deep in Sirius’ chest.

“Sirius,” Dumbledore said softly. “Perhaps you might be better able to explain this situation?”

Words abandoned him. Sirius clenched and unclenched his sweaty hands, opened his mouth and closed it again. “I found him,” he said at last. “I- he didn’t remember, and I didn’t think anyone would believe me, and I didn’t want to lose him, so I undid the memory charm, but I don’t know if it’s _him_ , I don’t think it can be.” He gulped in a breath. “Can it?”

“I’m right here!”

This was ignored. Dumbledore met Sirius’ eyes, and Sirius was surprised at the wealth of sadness he found there. “James died. I saw his body for myself, and I am certain you did as well.” He didn’t make Sirius answer this. “Which begs the question, of course… who are you?”

Not-James looked outraged. Tears stung the back of Sirius’ eyes. How many times had he seen that expression? That same face, again and again – after Lily had rejected him for the seventeenth time, after Snape had managed to catch him with a hex to the back after Charms class, after they had found out that someone was after Harry. It was an expression so uniquely James that to see it after thirteen years hurt in ways Sirius hadn’t known he could hurt.

“I am James! I don’t know what happened, all right? The last thing I remember is my mum visiting, only…” He frowned. “Only I didn’t think it was her. Not in the end. She… she pulled some of my hair out. Why would she do that? Then she Obliviated me. I lived out here for the last thirteen years. Thought my name was Kevin. Bloody Kevin!” He laughed, a little crazily, wide-eyed and desperate. “Didn’t remember anything about Lily, or Harry, or anyone. Sirius restored my memory.”

Dumbledore was frowning, but he had not lowered his wand. “Your mother Obliviated you?”

Sirius looked up at him, not daring to hope. “Is it possible?”

“If I have learned anything in my life, Sirius – and I flatter myself I have learned far more than that – it is that nothing is impossible.” Sirius’ breath caught. “I will need many more answers before I can decide this. Perhaps…” He turned to Not-James. “Would you consent to the use of Veritaserum? We have a supply at Hogwarts, courtesy of our fine Potions Master.”

Not-James nodded. “Yeah! Yeah, of course. If that’s what it takes. Then will you take me to Lily? And Harry?”

Sirius closed his eyes. There was a lump in his throat and his eyes stung fiercely. James didn’t even know. His family had been torn apart and he didn’t know, and he didn’t know it was Sirius’ fault. Merlin, he was going to find out the truth.

“First things first,” said Dumbledore, and the crease of Not-James’ brow told Sirius that the dodging of his question had not gone unnoticed. “If you would accompany me to my office? I shall ensure we are not disturbed.” He swept an arm towards Not-James’ fireplace. “After you, gentlemen.”

“Dumbledore’s office!” Sirius threw a handful of powder into the flames and stepped through, his head spinning. Not-James followed, with Dumbledore directly behind him. Not-James wiped the ash from his glasses.

“Let’s get this over with, then.”

* * *

 

Severus was not here over the summer, of course, but he had long ago granted Dumbledore access to his private stores, and it was a quick matter for Albus to retrieve a dose of Veritaserum. He used the walk to the dungeons to clear his mind. Albus did not often find himself blindsided, but never in a hundred years would he have expected this. James Potter. Albus had not dared to speak it in front of Sirius, did not want to tip his hand, but he the truth was he rather suspected this man was telling the truth. Anything less did not make a great deal of sense.

He returned to his office to find the two men in silence. James was petting Fawkes, who was in his prime at the moment, beautiful scarlet and gold plumage at its glossiest. Albus watched for a moment. Fawkes had met James but a few times, but phoenixes were fantastic judges of character. Another tally in this man’s favour.

“I have the potion,” he said, and Sirius’ head shot up from where he had been sitting in front of Albus’ desk, examining his feet. “Shall we proceed?”

Sirius just stared at him, a man adrift at sea. The other man stepped forward, though, reaching out a hand. Albus passed him the vial and he unstoppered it, swallowing it down in one gulp. His face slackened, eyes glazing over, and Albus took a moment to steel himself.

“What is your name?”

“James Potter.” There was a choked gasp from Sirius’ direction, but Albus would not look away from the man in front of him.

“When were you born?”

“The twenty-seventh of March, 1960.”

“What form does your patronus take?”

“A stag.”

Albus swallowed. Veritaserum could be fooled, but Severus’ brew was particularly potent. At the very least he couldn’t discount the possibility that this was the truth. He thought his next question might prove it.

“What did you leave in my possession before your- disappearance?”

“My invisibility cloak. You said you wanted to study it.”

Few people knew that James had even owned an invisibility cloak. Pettigrew had, though, so the information could have been passed along. There were few questions that would definitively prove this man’s identity.

“Who acted as Secret Keeper for yourself and Lily when you went into hiding in Godric’s Hollow?”

“Peter Pettigrew.” James spoke as calmly as though they were discussing the weather. “We were going to use Sirius, but we decided to switch at the last minute. We didn’t tell anyone.”

A strangled sob, again from Sirius. This time Albus glanced in his direction, and found him staring at James with an expression of such awe that Albus had to look away.

“It’s certainly clear that you believe yourself to be James Potter,” said Albus. “However, a particularly powerful memory charm – or an incorrectly done retrieval, if you will forgive the implication, Sirius – could achieve the same effects. I’m sure you both understand that we need to be absolutely certain that this is James before we take any further steps.”

James scowled. “I don’t know what else I can do to prove it!”

“You are familiar with Legilimency?” Albus asked, and James’ expression darkened further.

“You want to go into my mind?”

“It is not a desire so much as a necessity. Will you allow it?”

James shot an outraged glance in Sirius’ direction, perhaps seeking the backup that the other man had always provided. Sirius would not meet his gaze, and James turned back to Albus. “Yes, fine. If that’s what it takes.”

Albus nodded. “Thank you.” And he raised his gaze to meet James’.

The rush of memories was a shock. It took Albus a moment to acclimatise himself, and in that moment he was almost swept away in a flood of James Potter’s history. The first day on the Hogwarts Express, laughing with Sirius. His Sorting, the hat whispering into his ear, _you’ll need to be so, so brave… better be GRYFFINDOR!_ Teasing Lily, throwing parchment planes at her, demanding she replace Snivellus with him, asking her out, asking her out, taking her out. Lily. Lily, Lily, Lily. Harry. His _son_.

Albus pushed these down and searched for what he needed. The most recent memories. True to James’ word, he found Euphemia Potter pointing a wand at her son. Three dark black hairs were clutched in her other hand. _This is not my mother_.

There was white, then, for a while, and then James resurfaced on a remote island. Warmth. A small community. He tutored some of the children in Transfiguration and in return they taught him how to surf and showed him which of the island’s fruits were edible and which would leave you with an aching stomach for days.

Then Sirius.

Albus hesitated at the fringes of this memory, looking for signs of tampering, but for all intents and purposes it seemed as if it had been fixed. Like something James hadn’t even realised was missing had slotted back into place. The island memories seemed jagged in comparison, snapshots from someone else’s life forced into James Potter’s mind.

Albus retreated. James was gasping a little at the intrusion, but Albus placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him. That seemed confirmation enough for Sirius, who lunged forward, only hesitating a few feet from James.

“James,” Albus said. “Welcome back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading! i know we didn't really move forward a huge amount, but like  
> you gotta be sure the dude's really james before you go telling folks he's back from the dead  
> drop me a comment if you fancy it!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters in two days? Who even am I  
> I'm feeling this story right now so I'm gonna ride that wave as far as it'll take me, have another chapter y'all

“It- it’s really him?”

Sirius stared at Dumbledore. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t move. This couldn’t be real. Things like this – good things – did not happen to Sirius Black.

In defiance of this fact, Dumbledore nodded his head. “I believe so. There are few who could resist the thrall of Veritaserum. Fewer still could alter their own memories so fully. I am, to flatter myself once more, one of the finest Legilimens in the world. His memories are James’.”

Sirius jerked his gaze away from Dumbledore, towards James. “James,” he choked out. “James.” He couldn’t seem to find the words. What was there to say?

James was grinning at him, so familiar even after all these years. “Who else would I be?”

With a shaky sob, Sirius threw himself into James’ arms, his own arms wrapping tightly around the other man. “James,” he said again, and felt the tears slip down his face at last.

Hands reached around to hug him in return. Strong hands, no hesitation. Merlin, but it had been years since anyone had held him like this. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked, face buried in James’ shoulder. He felt James’ body stiffen.

“Sorry? What for?”

Sirius shuddered in another breath. “I- I should have never suggested Peter! I should have-” here he cut himself off, overcome with sobs.

“What exactly happened after I disappeared?” James asked, and Sirius could hear the frown in his voice. “Where’s Lily? And Harry? What happened to Voldemort? Is he still-” He stopped, and Sirius lifted his head to see that Dumbledore had raised a quelling hand.

“I think you should both sit down. This will be a long and no doubt difficult conversation.”

Still frowning, James drew away, but Sirius grabbed his arm with a white-knuckle grip. He flushed with shame, instantly pulling away, but James seemed to understand. James had always understood. He threw an arm around Sirius’ shoulder and guided them both to the seats in front of Dumbledore’s desk. The old headmaster took a seat on the other side and regarded them both, fingers steepled but his expression soft, almost fond.

“Based on your memories, I believe that your mother replaced you, with the use of Polyjuice potion, around a week before Halloween of 1981.”

James gaped. “You really think that was her?”

Dumbledore looked at him kindly. “A parent’s love can force them to do seemingly terrible deeds, James. Euphemia no doubt believed she was protecting you. I can see no other reason why she would have taken those hairs from you. She must have had a large brew of Polyjuice potion to which to add them. I believe she intended to impersonate you for the duration of the war, and to find you and restore your memories afterwards.”

“Then... why didn’t she?” James seemed to already know the answer.

“That rat betrayed us all,” snarled Sirius. He didn’t want to tell this part, didn’t want James to know how fully and completely Sirius had failed, but he needed to know. If James was going to condemn him, let it be sooner rather than later. “He sold you out to Voldemort.”

James stared at him. “Peter told Voldemort where to find us?”

Dumbledore nodded. “On Halloween of that year, Voldemort found his way to your home in Godric’s Hollow. He killed who we believed to be you, and then Lily Potter.”

“Lily’s _dead_?”

Sirius felt fresh tears run down his face at the stunned tone of James’ voice.

“No way. Peter wouldn’t – he wouldn’t sell us out like that. He was our friend! One of our best friends!”

“We all thought so too.” Sirius’ voice shook, this time from anger. “He’d been spying for Voldemort for months.”

“She- she can’t be dead, though, she can’t.” James froze with sudden realisation, one hand in his hair, an expression of utmost horror on his face. “What about Harry? What happened to Harry?”

“Voldemort attempted to kill him,” said Dumbledore, and James let out a low, animal moan.

“Merlin, no. Not Harry.” He buried his face in his hands, and Sirius gripped his wrist tightly.

“Harry’s alive, mate.”

James’ head shot up. “What? How?”

Dumbledore stepped in. “Voldemort was unsuccessful in his attempt. Lily sacrificed her life for Harry and in doing so gave him the power to survive the Killing Curse. Voldemort’s curse appeared to backfire, and he disappeared that night. He has made attempts to return since, but he has been largely unsuccessful.”

James opened and closed his mouth several times. “I don’t… know where to start with this. This can’t be real.” He ran his hand through his hair. “Okay. So. Harry lives with you, then, right Sirius?”

Sirius hung his head. “No.” He braced himself for the outrage, the screaming, the fury at Sirius’ incompetence and betrayal. It never came, because Dumbledore spoke next.

“On the night of Voldemort’s defeat, Sirius was first on the scene. He found young Harry and passed him along to Hagrid. He then went to confront Peter.”

“I wanted…” Sirius clenched his fists and forced himself to look up into James’ face, which was slack with shock. “I wanted to kill him for what he’d done. I didn’t care about anything else, I just wanted to make him pay. So I tracked him down, but he- he made it seem like I was the one who betrayed you. Shouted it for everyone to hear. Then he blew up the street. He killed twelve Muggles, cut off his finger, transformed and disappeared into the sewers.”

“He framed you?”

Sirius felt himself nod. “I was arrested. No trial.” He laughed hoarsely. “I spent twelve years in Azkaban.”

James met Sirius’ eyes. “You’re not joking.”

“I wish I was. I’m so sorry, James. I should have been there for him.” He’d thought those words so many times, whispered them to the walls of Azkaban, even spoken them to Harry, but he never thought he would get to say them to James. To beg for his forgiveness, for a chance to make things right again.

James’ jaw dropped. “Sorry?” Sirius cringed away. Stupid. Stupid, he should have known, nothing could make up for what he’d done, Lily had died, James- no, James’ mother had died, Harry had almost died… nothing could fix this. He was so lost in these thoughts that James’ next comment barely registered. “You have nothing to be sorry for. If-” Sirius glanced up in time to see James swallow, seeming to struggle with his next words “- if Peter really did betray us then it’s his fault, not yours. You were a victim as well.”

Just like that. That was the way James Potter worked. He was so sure of the rightness of his morality. If you had done wrong, he would tell you. It seemed stupidly simple, spoken like that, from the mouth of the man Sirius had wronged. He hugged his elbows.

“You don’t blame me?”

“I mean… this is a lot to take in, mate. But if this story is true, how could I blame you? All you tried to do was get revenge. I’d have done the same if it were you.”

Sirius stared at him. How could he make it sound so easy? So right? He had spent decades castigating himself for his sins, and James had absolved him in seconds.

“So,” James continued, not to be deterred. “Where is my son? Did Moony get him? Oh Merlin,” he said, “Remus is still alive, right?”

Dumbledore smiled. “Remus is alive and well. I’m sure he will be thrilled at this turn of events, but he was not the one to raise Harry either. The blood protection set up by Lily’s death was such that Harry had to reside with someone who shared her blood.”

James was frowning as he worked through this. “Lily’s parents are dead.”

Another nod. “But her sister is not.”

“ _Petunia_?” There was no mistaking the disgust in James’ tone. “She hated Lily! She wouldn’t even come to the wedding. She hated that Lily had magic. How could Harry end up with her?”

“It was necessary, for his safety.”

“I want to see him.” James insisted. “God, how old is he? Nearly fourteen?” He sagged in his chair like a marionette with the strings cut. “I’ve missed so much. I need to see him. I need to be sure he’s all right.”

Dumbledore hesitated here. “There are certain matters we’ll need to arrange, first. We need to decide who will be told about your unexpected return… if we choose to alert the Ministry there will doubtless be many rigorous tests to prove your identity – although I shall of course vouch for you. And-”

“I want to see my son!” James was shaking, now.

Sirius frowned. He didn’t know if seeing Harry would help, right now. James was missing his infant son, the baby who grabbed at Lily’s hair and chased the cat around on his toy broomstick and called James by his name because Lily had never gotten the hang of calling him ‘Dad’ in front of Harry. The Harry Sirius knew was nearly fourteen, brave and reckless and a brilliant Quidditch player. Would seeing Harry just make things worse, remind James of what he had lost?

Dumbledore softened. “My boy…” He sighed. “We will need to alert Harry. If I may, I would like to inform him myself, and give him the chance to adjust to the news. He is not used to having a father, after all.”

James dropped his head. “Merlin… he doesn’t even know me, does he? I’m his dad and he won’t even recognise me.”

Sirius snorted at that. “Oh, he’ll recognise you all right. He looks just like you, mate.”

“Really?”

Sirius nodded. “Lily’s eyes, of course.” His lip trembled as he forced himself to smile. “He’s a specky git just like you, though.”

James heaved out a quaking breath. “Okay,” he said. “You’re right. He won’t be expecting me, I guess I can’t just show up.”

“You’d give him the fright of his life,” Sirius agreed. “Best to let Dumbledore sort this one, mate. You’ll get to see him soon.”

Dumbledore rose from his desk. “Wonderful,” he said. “Then if we are all in agreement, I shall set out at once. Please make yourselves comfortable. I shall endeavour to return as soon as possible, though of course I ask you not to leave this room until I do. It is best that neither of you be seen.”

Sirius nodded, feeling the same sick twist of shame in his gut that he did whenever he was reminded of his fugitive status. “Go talk to Harry.” 

* * *

 

In truth, Albus had one more stop to make before he visited the boy. He was certain that the man in his office was James Potter – memories couldn’t be faked, not to such an extent – and yet he needed one final piece of evidence. He had not told Sirius or James of his mission, and would not mention it to anyone.

It was late at night, and the graveyard was mercifully empty when Albus Apparated into Godric’s Hollow. Nevertheless, he cast a Disillusionment charm over himself as he moved between the gravestones, looking for the one that would give him the answers he needed.

The cool summer air was a balm against Albus’ restless nerves. He had learned much this night, and there would be more to do before the day was out.

Lily and James’ tombstone was difficult to read in the darkness, but Albus did not dare cast a light. No one could know he was here. It was so gruesome a task that Albus would rather he was not here at all, but as with many of the tasks he undertook, if he did not do it no one would.

They had seen James’ body the night of his murder, but each dose of Polyjuice potion lasted an hour. Albus and Sirius had each been on the scene well before that hour was up, and James and Lily’s bodies had been taken care of rapidly. It was possible… well. He would see.

Albus stood to the side of the grave and waved his wand. The dirt above James’ body lifted itself, sifting into a heap at the foot of the grave. The resulting hole was wide enough to leave a space beside the casket at the bottom for Albus to stand. Albus steeled himself and stepped down into the grave, cool soil shifting beneath his fingers as he lowered himself. It was musty, the stench of death still faint. He stared at the coffin beside him. _What am I doing, Ariana? What kind of man have I become?_

He knew the answer, of course, as he knew the answers to most things. He was the kind of man who did what needed to be done.

A sharp blast from his wand was enough to crack the coffin open, and Albus lifted the lid with steady hands. A wave of decay swept over him, and Albus at last lit his wand.

The skeleton in the coffin was not James Potter. After thirteen years it would have been difficult to say who, exactly, it was, but it was not James Potter. In fact, Albus was sure that he knew who it was. Smaller than James by nearly a foot, with wisps of dry, brittle hair reaching the shoulders, it was enough to confirm his suspicions. He resealed the coffin, leaving the body undisturbed. “You did well, Euphemia,” he murmured, and extinguished the light.

* * *

 

It was nearly ten o’clock when the doorbell rang at Number Four, Privet Drive.

The sound startled Harry, who had been working on his Transfiguration homework (for lack of anything better to do). From downstairs he could hear Uncle Vernon rumble, “Who the blazes is that, calling at this hour?” Aunt Petunia hmmed a disapproving agreement. There was the thump-thump-thump of Uncle Vernon’s lumbering footsteps, and the rattle of the front door being wrenched open.

Then silence.

This was enough to pique Harry’s interest. He put down his quill and began to stand, just as Uncle Vernon snarled, “What are you doing here?” Aunt Petunia’s horrified gasp carried up the stairs, and Harry crept out of his room to eavesdrop.

“I do apologise for the lateness of the hour,” came a familiar voice, and Harry’s jaw dropped in astonishment. Professor Dumbledore was in his house. Professor Dumbledore had come to visit him at the Dursleys? Or had he come to visit the Dursleys themselves? Both seemed absurd, and Harry peered over the banister into the hallway below. Sure enough, Albus Dumbledore was standing in the doorway, his wizardly purple robes and half-moon spectacles incongruous with the perfect cream of Aunt Petunia’s spotless hallway. “I’m afraid this is a matter of some urgency.”

“Professor Dumbledore?” Harry moved cautiously to the bottom of the stairs, and Dumbledore turned to face him. He beamed.

“Ah, Harry! How wonderful to see you.”

“You- you can’t-” Uncle Vernon was sputtering, his face well on its way to puce. “This is a normal neighbourhood, we can’t have your lot just- showing up on our doorstep!”

Professor Dumbledore did not seem fazed by this treatment. “Yes, most rude of me to arrive without prior notice,” he agreed. “May I come in? I do apologise, but I must speak with Harry.”

“Is everything… all right?” Harry asked, as Uncle Vernon continued to sputter. Aunt Petunia had pressed her lips together so tightly they were nothing more than a thin white line. Dumbledore seemed blissfully oblivious to this as he stepped into the hallway.

“Quite so, Harry. I am sorry to intrude upon your summer freedom, but I have some news that you will most certainly want to hear. Is there somewhere we could speak?”

Harry glanced uncertainly at Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia. Uncle Vernon seemed to be working himself up to another shouting match, so he hurriedly said, “Er, maybe my room? It’s just up here.” The awkwardness of inviting his headmaster into his bedroom did not fully register until he stepped back into the room and saw the mess of parchment and dirty clothes. Hedwig was out hunting, but her cage, too, could have done with a clean. Harry flushed a little as Dumbledore stepped into his bedroom, but the man appeared not to notice the mess.

“Shall we make ourselves comfortable?” Dumbledore smiled at Harry and flicked his wand. The rickety chair at which Harry had sat to do his homework was transfigured into a plush armchair. With another wave of his wand the headmaster conjured a similar chair, and sat down. “Sit, sit!”

Harry perched himself on the edge of his chair. It was really quite comfortable, but his heart was pounding. “You said you had news, sir?”

“Yes, yes. Ah.” For the first time since Harry had known him, Professor Dumbledore appeared uncertain. One hand reached for his beard, twirling the ends around his index finger. “Where to begin, I wonder.”

Harry frowned. “Is it bad news?”

“No, no, my boy. Quite the contrary, most would say, but it is of a difficult nature.” Dumbledore leaned towards Harry, fingers now interlocked. “Harry… we have found your father. James Potter is not dead, as the world once believed. He is alive.”

Harry felt his stomach drop out from underneath him. He laughed uncertainly. It wasn’t a very funny joke. “I don’t get it, sir.”

Dumbledore did not smile. “It is not a joke, Harry. I understand your shock – I am still recovering from the surprise myself. Earlier today I received a patronus from Sirius, imploring me to meet with him. Upon travelling to his location, I found that he had met with a man who looked very much like James Potter, but who had no memory of being such. Sirius correctly identified that he had been Obliviated, and was able to reverse the charm. We have tested him thoroughly, and believe he is who he says he is. He is your father, Harry.”

A cold sweat broke out on the back of Harry’s neck, and when he looked down at his hands he found they were shaking in his lap. He clenched them into fists to make them stop. “I don’t understand. My dad’s dead.”

A sympathetic hand was laid on his shoulder. “I would not bring this to you if I were not certain, Harry. Your grandmother used Polyjuice potion to take James’ place a mere week before Voldemort found you. She wiped James’ memory, and it was she who died in his place that night.”

“My grandmother?” The concept was foreign to Harry. He had never considered that he might have had grandparents. “This- this can’t be right. How could no one have noticed?”

“The only person in constant contact with James at the time was Lily. It is possible she noticed the difference when the switch was made, but no one else would have. After that night no one thought to look for James, believing him dead, and he lived his life far away from Britain with no memory of being James Potter. It is a happy coincidence that Sirius stumbled upon him this summer.”

Harry stared at Dumbledore’s face, searching for any hint of a lie. The old man’s face was open, the slightest smile in his eyes. “I don’t know what to say.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I expect it will take some getting used to. I shall leave you to dwell upon this whilst I have a few words with your guardians. I daresay they will be interested to learn of this development.” He rose from his armchair and left the room. Harry stared at his empty seat, still shaking.

His dad. His dad was alive.

Harry had killed a basilisk, fought a mountain troll, befriended a werewolf. He was the youngest Seeker in a century. He had stopped Voldemort returning to his full power on two separate occasions. And yet nothing- nothing had ever felt so unreal as this moment right now, sitting in the Dursleys’ second bedroom, looking at his own trembling hands and trying to process that his father was alive.

It didn’t make any sense, except that it did, in the most horrible way. Part of Harry was singing, roaring with untamed delight. _You should be happy, you idiot, why aren’t you happy?_ The other part, the part of him that was still that ten-year-old boy living in the dark under his Aunt and Uncle’s stairs, didn’t dare believe it. He hadn’t had a dad for thirteen years. There was no way he could suddenly have one now. It was some sort of trick.

The only question was, why? Dumbledore had no reason to lie to Harry, and the headmaster surely had far better things to do than come to the Dursleys’ and play cruel tricks on him. Maybe Dumbledore, too, had been tricked? The idea of anyone getting one over on Dumbledore seemed crazy, but no crazier than the idea of his father being alive.

It hurt, though, no matter that it was just a trick. The surging hope that he desperately tried to squash down burned in his chest. James Potter had died; this was a fact of life. And yet…

He wanted it to be true. So badly did he want it to be true.

The loss of Sirius had struck him hard this summer, never mind that he had only known the man for a few short hours. Sirius was a link to the parents he had never known, to a life he had never known. The thought of living with him had brought joy Harry didn’t know he could feel, and the subsequent disappointment when Sirius had to return to a life on the run was hard to bear.

Sirius was the first person who had ever offered to be a father to him, really. To have a real father – it was preposterous. Harry did not have parents. A sudden hot flush of anger swept over him. Who did this person think they were, pretending like this? Lying about being Harry’s dead dad? He felt sick to his stomach.

There was only one thing for it, then. He would go with Professor Dumbledore to meet this imposter, and force them to reveal the truth.

* * *

 

For perhaps the fiftieth time that evening, James ran a hand through his hair. He gripped it at the roots and pulled, the sharp pain drawing him back into this awful reality.

It was hard to believe that just hours ago he had been Kevin Northrop, Transfiguration tutor and occasional surfer, organiser of the island Quidditch tournament and father of none. If he closed his eyes he could still feel the warmth of the sun on his tanned skin.

Now he was James Potter again, widower and absent father of one. It had been thirteen years since he had seen his son. Thirteen years since- no. There had to be some mistake, because of course Lily wasn’t dead. There was no way Lily had died and James had not. He would reunite with his son and then he would find his wife. Easy.

Albus had left several minutes ago, and the silence hung heavy in the air between James and Sirius. It was thick and oppressive in a way it never had been between them, filling his lungs and making James choke on his words. He supposed the weight of thirteen years was not easily cast aside.

Thirteen years. Had it really been so long? And yet he knew it had, because he had spent thirteen years on that island, thirteen carefree years. All the while, his best friend had been in Azkaban and his son had been raised by Lily’s magic-hating sister. It was a nightmare of the worst kind.

He swallowed, his mouth dry, and wiped his sweaty hands on his trousers.

It was Sirius who broke the silence. “Can you…” He trailed off again, and James turned to look at him.

The years had not been kind to Sirius Black. He was so skinny, face gaunt and eyes sunken, dark with the horrors he had seen. His hair, though shoulder length as James remembered it, hung lank and ragged as though Sirius had cut it himself. His Adam’s apple was prominent as he swallowed, and forced out his next words. “Can you still… will you show me Prongs?”

Prongs. _Merlin_.

Kevin Northrop had not been an Animagus. He supposed it made sense, in some way; his mother (and he had not even begun to process that loss, was keeping it firmly tamped down inside) had not known he could turn into a stag at will. She had unwittingly wiped that from his mind along with everything else that made James himself.

He had not transformed in thirteen years, and was struck with a sudden, horrible certainty that he would not be able to. If he could not make himself Prongs, Sirius would never believe it was him. He would be furious, would maybe even- James cut the thought off.

No. He was not Kevin anymore. He was James Potter, and James Potter had been an Animagus since he was fifteen. There was no question of whether he could transform – of course he could. He surged to his feet, knocking the chair to the ground, and with scarcely another thought, Prongs burst into being.

It was an alien sensation, being Prongs again after so long, and yet it was like coming home. Never had he felt so much like he belonged in Prongs’ skin. Four legs felt right, and at the same time he was certain he would not remember how to walk. The antlers atop his head were part of him, of course, and yet top-heavy and awkward.

He didn't have long to pursue this curious train of thought, as a pair of arms flung themselves around his neck. There was a warm wetness soaking into his hide, and the arms around him shuddered with silent sobs.

“It’s really you.”

Prongs didn't know how long they stood like that, Sirius clinging to him like a lifeline. It was some time before the sobs began to die down, but they were at last cut off completely by a surge of green flames from the fireplace.

Sirius and Prongs both looked over as Albus Dumbledore emerged from the Floo, and stepped aside to allow a young boy access. He was skinny, with round glasses and familiar unruly hair. From behind the glasses peered green eyes, Lily’s eyes, and even as Prongs James felt a swooping sensation in his stomach. His legs felt weak. Could deers faint? Sirius’ arms uncurled from around his neck, and James wished them back. He needed the support.

Harry had arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop me a comment, I love to hear from readers!  
> (even if the comment is just telling me how WEIRD it is that Dumbledore just went grave-robbing)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had this finished for a couple of days but I wanted to hold onto it until I had more of the next chapter done. I'm about 1500 words into the next one although tbh progress has stalled a little so who knows when that one will show up. For now, have another chapter!

Stepping through the Floo into Dumbledore’s office, Harry had not been sure of what to expect. He had hardly even thought about it, his ears hot with rage, heart pounding in his chest so loudly he could hear nothing but the rush of his own blood.

He was brought up short by the appearance of a stag.

“Um,” he said, and found both the stag and Sirius – Sirius, Sirius was here! – staring at him. He stared back, and for a moment everyone was frozen. Then Sirius broke into a grin that shaved years from his haggard face.

“Harry!” His godfather stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. Harry’s arms lifted of their own accord to hug him in return, and he heard himself speak.

“Sirius, what’s going on?”

Sirius stepped back, although his hands remained on Harry’s shoulders. “Did Professor Dumbledore explain?”

Harry nodded. “He said- he said my dad’s back, but I know that’s not possible. My dad’s dead.”

He watched as Sirius searched for the right words, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I thought so too, Harry, but…” Sirius waved an arm in the direction of the stag and Harry frowned, failing to recognise the significance. He had encountered some strange things before in Dumbledore’s office, but a stag was especially confusing. “It really is him.”

Harry scowled. His heart wouldn’t stop hammering against his ribcage. “I don’t get it! Why are you lying about this? How could my dad still be alive? And why is there a… _stag_ in Dumbledore’s office?” This question was a sullen afterthought, as he turned his gaze to the stag. It was beautiful, in a way. Tall, with thick, golden-brown hair and intelligent eyes.

Oh.

Sirius didn’t get a chance to answer, as Harry turned to look at him again. “You said my dad could turn into a stag.”

His godfather nodded at him. The stag took a few tentative steps towards him, and Harry froze. “Prongs,” he whispered. The image of the patronus he had summoned a few weeks ago was standing before him, solid and real. Harry reached out a hand, heart in his throat, and placed it on the stag’s neck. The hair was rough beneath his fingers.

He swallowed. “This is a really horrible prank.” His voice was so soft he barely heard it himself. Sirius reached out and touched his arm, the one holding onto Prongs.

“It’s not a trick, Harry, I swear.” Harry looked up into his godfather’s silver-grey eyes and was struck with the realisation that Sirius, too, had lost everything the night Harry’s parents died. Sirius, too, felt the gaping hole that James and Lily Potter had left behind – perhaps even more than Harry himself, who had never known them but for a few words in a memory so horrible that only dementors could bring it back to him.

“I don’t-” To his horror, Harry could feel a lump in his throat, the familiar prickle of tears in his eyes. He blinked rapidly. “I don’t understand.” He pulled back from the stag, trying to summon his earlier anger, trying to feel anything other than this numb sense of almost-hope.

“Prongs,” said Sirius softly, drawing Harry away. He stood behind Harry, hands a comforting weight on his shoulders. “I think you’d better show him.”

And just like that, Prongs disappeared.

In his place stood a man: he was perhaps thirty years old, with tanned skin and a sturdy frame. His hair- his hair was the same hair that Harry saw every time he looked in the mirror, black and untameable. For all intents and purposes, it was like looking at himself, twenty years on, though stockier and healthier-looking. Harry raised his eyes to meet the man’s gaze, and found a pair of unfamiliar hazel eyes staring back at him.

A swell of nausea rose in his stomach. He had seen James Potter before in photographs, in the Mirror of Erised. This man had done a fantastic job of mimicking him.

“Harry,” said the man, and Harry felt something in his chest slip out of place. He recognised that voice. _Lily, take Harry and go!_ He closed his eyes against the swell of tears. _It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off!_ “Merlin, look at you,” said the man, and his hazel eyes glistened with unshed tears. “You’ve grown so much.” He reached out a hand and Harry flinched away, his back burrowing deeper into Sirius’ chest.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Why are you _doing_ this?” His voice cracked mid-sentence, a few tears finally spilling.

The hand that had reached out to Harry sprung into the man’s hair, a lost expression on his face. The man’s gaze flickered up to meet Sirius’, and Harry felt the hands on his shoulders tighten their grip.

“Harry,” said Professor Dumbledore, startling Harry. He shot a look over to the headmaster. He had almost forgotten the man was there, but there he stood, as calm as he always was, though his blue eyes, too, were glistening. “I would not lie to you about this. This is no trick. James has taken Veritaserum, a powerful truth serum, to confirm to us his identity. I myself have inspected his memories. This man truly is James Potter.”

Something inside Harry broke. He pulled away from Sirius and stepped forward. Through the haze of tears, he made himself inspect every inch of the man’s face, from his messy black hair to his earnest hazel eyes to his hesitant, hopeful smile. His heartbeat rushed in his ears, and he felt stupid and slow, his tongue leaden, when he finally spoke.

“Dad?”

The man’s eyes crinkled into a deeper smile. “Harry.” He stepped forward and raised a hand towards him again, slower this time, and cupped Harry’s face, tilting it upwards to meet his gaze. “It’s really you. Merlin, you look so much like Lily. And your hair-” he stopped here to give a hoarse, tearful laugh, “-I bet you have a right time of it trying to style that, hey?”

“I’ve stopped trying,” Harry heard himself say, and his father – Merlin, his _father_ – laughed again.

“You’re so grown up,” he said, and the other hand came to stroke Harry’s hair. It felt odd; intimate and comforting. “I’ve missed so much.”

Harry cleared his throat, trying to dispel the lump in it. “Thirteen years,” he agreed. James’ face crumpled at that, and Harry found himself pulled tightly against the man’s chest, a strong arm wrapped around his back, one hand still cupping the back of his head.

“I’m so sorry, Harry.”

Harry couldn’t find the words. He clung to his father, fingers digging into the man’s back so tightly it had to hurt, but there was no protest. He had never been held like this, like he was something precious, someone’s son.

It was probably all a dream, and he would wake up any minute now in his little room at the Dursleys’, so he held on for dear life while he could. Might as well make the most of it.

He didn’t know how long they stood there for, clinging to each other. Harry was distantly aware that he was trembling, his face wet with tears, and if he had had any kind of focus beyond his dad he might have been mortified to find himself crying in front of the three most important men in his life. As it was he just stood in his father’s arms and prayed not to wake up from this dream.

James was the first to pull away, but he didn’t go far, leaning back just enough to get a good view of Harry’s face. Harry saw that James, too, had been crying, his face wet and eyes red, eyelashes clumping together.

“What happens now?” croaked Harry, swiping at his wet face with the sleeve of Dudley’s old jumper that he was wearing.

Professor Dumbledore stepped in at this question, and Harry saw that the old man looked somewhat tearful himself. This was by far the maddest dream Harry had ever had, and he used to dream about flying motorbikes. “We will need to take our next steps with caution.” He swept an arm to his desk, and another chair appeared before it. “Please, if you would all have a seat.”

Harry glanced uncertainly between Sirius and his father, and Sirius gave him a smile and a bracing clap on the shoulder as James steered Harry towards the seats. He found himself sat between the two men as Dumbledore took a seat on the opposite side of the desk.

Dumbledore looked between the three of them, a faint smile on his lips. “I never thought I would see the three of you all together again,” he said. “It is a marvel beyond words.”

There was silence at this, and Harry felt Sirius grip his wrist, a warm presence to remind him he was not alone in the madness of his father’s return.

“However,” Dumbledore said. “There are now many matters that need to be resolved. First of all, I believe we must discuss the blood protection.” Harry frowned, but there was no time to question this as Dumbledore continued, “James, I imagine you’ll be wanting to take Harry home with you? And Harry,” Dumbledore’s kind gaze was turned to Harry, who looked back numbly, “I have no doubt you would be happy to join him?”

“Leave the Dursleys?” In the face of all that had happened, the idea had not yet occurred to Harry. A thrill coursed through him. No more being screamed at by Uncle Vernon, no more of Aunt Petunia’s disgust and barely-disguised fear, no more listening to Dudley wail about his diet as Aunt Petunia plied them all with salads and grapefruit halves. It was a dream come true. “Yeah, of course!”

“Of course Harry should live with me, he’s my son!”

Dumbledore nodded. “Yes, of course. There is, however, the matter of where the two of you will live – your home in Godric’s Hollow was destroyed, and has become something of a memorial, I’m afraid.”

“A memorial?” James seemed stunned by this. The concept of a home before the Dursleys was another that had not really occurred to Harry before. He knew, of course, that he had not always lived with them, but he had not given much thought to where he might have lived before – other than that it was with his parents. Godric’s Hollow sounded like a properly magic place.

“And then there is the matter of Harry’s protection. I have explained to you, James, why it was necessary that he reside with Petunia and her family. Now I feel I owe the same explanation to you, Harry.”

Harry didn’t trust himself to speak, jerking his head into a nod.

“When Lily gave her life to save you, she invoked an ancient blood protection. It is this protection that lives on in your veins, this protection that prevents Voldemort from being able to touch you. Once I realised what she had done I placed a charm upon you, one that I hoped would keep you safe. The charm would prevent Voldemort from causing you harm as long as – and only as long as – you remained in the home of Petunia Dursley, who shares your mother’s blood, as you do, and who willingly took you into her home.”

Harry snorted at this. “She didn’t want me!” Sirius’ grip on his wrist tightened at this, and Dumbledore nodded, his brow creasing slightly.

“True. She was bitter, and begrudging, but she took you into her home, and as long as you have a home with Petunia Voldemort will be unable to harm you. Should you leave that home to live with James, that protection will no longer exist. You would not have a safe home to return to.”

“But you said Voldemort was gone,” said James. Harry felt his father’s hand on his shoulder.

“Gone,” agreed Dumbledore, “but not dead. He has twice attempted to return to his former power and I fear it is only a matter of time before he is successful.” Harry’s mouth felt dry, but he was not surprised at this news. Although Dumbledore had not shared these suspicions before now, it seemed to Harry that he had known Voldemort would never give up, not until he was dead, not just disappeared.

“You mean I have to stay with the Dursleys?” Harry couldn’t keep the horror out of his voice, and Dumbledore hmmed at this, twirling his beard around a finger.

“In order for the protection to renew itself, you must stay with the Dursleys until your birthday,” he said at length. “After that date, you would certainly be able to stay with James – under the understanding that your home with the Dursleys remains. It would not be a permanent solution.”

“He’s my son!” James was outraged, and it sparked a tiny warmth in Harry’s chest, even as the familiar crush of disappointment rested itself on his shoulders. Of course he couldn’t live with his dad. He should have known better than to get his hopes up again.

Dumbledore nodded. “The protection would last until Harry’s next birthday. That would give us a year to decide upon a more pleasing solution. Certainly it would not be right to keep the two of you apart after so many years, but we must bear Harry’s safety in mind.”

Never before had Harry cared so little about his own safety. Voldemort hadn’t been a threat to him since the Chamber, and even then he had been little more than a memory. The idea of the real Voldemort showing up at the Dursleys to try and kill him was absurd. He didn’t care about the blood magic; he wanted to leave.

It was the 25nd of July. That meant six more days with the Dursleys before he could leave to stay with his real, actual father.

Dumbledore sensed their continued hesitation. “It would give you time to organise a suitable home for yourself and Harry, James,” he said. “I daresay you will want as many protection charms as possible.”

James nodded faintly, his hand still heavy on Harry’s shoulder. “Yeah. I, uh. We could use my parents’ old place. I guess there’s nobody there anymore, not if my mum… well, I guess it’s mine now.”

“There is no one residing there, to my knowledge,” agreed Dumbledore. “We will investigate further in the morning.”

Harry slumped with relief. Six days felt like a lifetime, knowing his father was real and alive and _wanted him_ , but it was better than living with the Dursleys forever. He was used to imperfect solutions.

“There is also the matter of Sirius,” said Dumbledore, and Harry felt Sirius stiffen in the seat beside him. “While James’ return, and his corroboration of your story, confirms to us your innocence, without Peter I fear we will find it near impossible to prove to the Ministry. Even if we choose to reveal James’ return, he has been gone for thirteen years. They will be deeply suspicious of any information you reveal, even should you consent to the use of Veritaserum.”

“But he’s innocent! There has to be something we can do,” Harry said, struck with visions of Sirius again on the run. His first glimpse of Sirius Black, gaunt and tortured in the shadowy insides of the Shrieking Shack, had not left him. He couldn’t bear for Sirius to live that way again, not when they all knew the truth, not when Sirius was right here next to him. He couldn’t lose him again.

Dumbledore sighed. “I will need to think on this further. For now, we must decide what can be done in the short term.”

“Well, Sirius can stay with us,” said James, as though it were obvious. “No one’s lived at my parents’ house in years, nobody will look for him there, will they? Especially not if we’re going to be warding the hell out of the place.”

“James…” Sirius didn’t seem to know what to say.

Dumbledore, on the other hand, seemed pleased. “Excellent. In that case, I think we ought to retire for the night. Harry, I have explained the situation to the Dursleys and they will not expect you until tomorrow afternoon. I think it best if we all spend the night here. We can discuss what else must be done in the morning.”

Harry nodded, suddenly aware of how bone weary he was, his eyes heavy. He yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking yawn, and Dumbledore smiled. “I shall ask the house-elves to arrange for your beds to be made in the Gryffindor dormitory. I ask that the three of you take great care when travelling through the castle: there are no staff members here during the summer, but I’m afraid the portraits can be the most awful gossips.”

Sleeping in the Gryffindor dormitory with his dad and Sirius Black. Would the day never run out of insane twists?

The walk to Gryffindor tower passed in a kind of blur. Harry didn’t remember how they made it through the portrait hole with no password to give the Fat Lady, didn’t remember sinking down onto his bed, neatly made by the house elves as promised. A clean pair of pyjamas was folded at the foot of the bed, silky soft under his hands. Everything felt fuzzy and distant, like an excerpt from somebody else’s life.

He glanced up to see James looking at him with an unreadable expression. Sirius was staring hungrily at James like the other man would disappear if he glanced away for even a second.

Harry swallowed. “You’ll both still be here tomorrow, right?” He wanted to feel embarrassed at his own vulnerability, but he just felt tired, exhausted from the evening’s events. Too tired to care; he wanted his father and his godfather to stay, wanted this to still be real in the light of day.

James smiled at him. “I’m not going anywhere, kiddo.” Kiddo. It sounded… fond, almost. Endearing. Something a parent would say. No one had ever spoken to Harry in such a way, and again he felt tears prickling at his eyes. Wasn’t he done with the waterworks by now?

Ducking his head to hide his expression, Harry picked up his pyjamas and ducked into the bathroom to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this is moving kind of slowly, but I wanna tread carefully with that sweet sweet father-son interaction. It's gotta feel real, y'all. Drop me a comment if you liked it!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish I could commit to an update schedule for this but I have so many other things I should be doing (and am not doing whoops)  
> Anyway here's another chapter! I hope you like it

When he woke the next day, it took James a long moment to realise where he was. He hadn’t slept in the Gryffindor dormitory since he was eighteen years old, lifetimes ago. For a startling instant he thought maybe he _was_ eighteen again, until he rolled over to find Sirius staring at him. Neither of them had drawn their curtains the night before – James didn’t want to cut himself off from Harry like that, not when he had just gotten his son back.

Sirius smiled when he saw James was awake. James made himself smile back as he pushed himself into a sitting position, although in truth Sirius was nothing to be smiling at. Merlin, he looked so _ill_. Twelve years in Azkaban was nothing to sniff at. Rage welled up in his chest, rage he had been too numb with shock to even feel the night before. How could Peter have done that to them, to Sirius, to _Harry_? To a baby? And for what?

“Morning,” said Sirius, hoarse. The night’s sleep had done nothing for the dark bags beneath his eyes. It was hard to believe Sirius was only thirty-four years old; he looked at least ten years older.

He had missed so much.

“Morning,” James murmured in response, glancing over to his son’s bed. Harry was still asleep, a frown creasing his brows. He had not drawn the curtains surrounding his bed either, and now both men could see the way he was twisted in his sheets, the faintest sheen of sweat on his brow, on the scar that James had noticed the night before but not thought to mention.

“The scar,” he said, turning back to Sirius, who was watching them both with a gentle, almost tender expression. “Is that from-?”

“Voldemort, yeah,” said Sirius, scowling. “It happened when the spell rebounded, I guess. It’s permanent.”

James ran a hand through his hair. It seemed just moments ago that he had been father to a one-year-old, a tiny happy baby with an unmarred forehead and a propensity for knocking things over on his toy broomstick. Now his son was nearly grown: a teenager, a young boy with a scar that would never fade. He hadn’t even believed James was real. He couldn’t blame the boy, but neither could he deny how it had broken his heart, the way Harry cried, demanded to know why he was being hurt like this.

How could he ever make up for thirteen years of absence?

He didn’t dare take his eyes off his son, sure that if he looked away Harry would age another thirteen years in the blink of an eye, would be a grown man with no need at all of a father. How could his mother have robbed him of this?

“Everything’s broken,” he said at last. There was a rustle of covers as Sirius stood and crossed the gap between their beds to sit beside James. They used to sit like this in another life, him and Sirius and Remus and Peter all squashed onto one bed, crowded around the Marauders’ Map or trading chocolate frog cards or, on one ill-fated occasion, playing games involving a lot of firewhiskey and a deck of Exploding Snap cards. Peter’s eyebrows had never been the same.

Sirius nudged him. “Not everything.” James glanced over to see Sirius’ face, inches from his, and he knew that beneath the weight of years of separation was a face he knew better than he knew his own. “Harry’s still here. You haven’t missed everything. He’ll be so happy to have you back.” The warm weight of Sirius’ shoulder against his was a comfort.

“I can’t believe Mum would do this to me,” he said at last.

“She just wanted to protect you, mate.”

James felt a flare of rage. “Why me? What about Harry? He was the one in danger! Or- or Lily! What, I deserve to live just because I had a parent willing to _replace_ me?” Harry began to stir in the bed opposite them, and James tried to calm himself. Inhale. Exhale. “She didn’t even ask me.”

“I’m not saying it was right,” Sirius said, but he wouldn’t meet James’ gaze. “But you’re alive, and so is Harry. That counts for something.”

The anger was still bubbling inside him, but James sighed, shoulders sagging. “I guess you’re right.”

“I always am,” said Sirius, tossing his hair in an achingly familiar gesture. James smiled. Sirius was the same man he always had been, beneath those years of trauma. The foundations of their friendship were still there, after all this time. They could fix it.

_CRACK!_

James startled at the loud noise, and across from him he saw Harry jolt upright, one hand already reaching for his glasses on the table beside him. Standing in the middle of the room was one of the strangest looking house elves James had ever laid eyes upon. It was dressed in a bizarre combination of mismatched socks - two socks on each foot – a truly heinous orange-and-brown striped jumper, and what appeared to be a tea cosy sat jauntily on its head. It was clutching a tray loaded with toast, bacon, scrambled eggs and sausages as well as a pitcher of pumpkin juice and a pot of tea.

Harry was gaping at the elf, who had turned to beam at him. “Good morning, Mister Potter, sir!”

“ _Dobby_?”

The house elf began to chatter happily away to Harry, explaining how it was he had come to be in their dormitory at Hogwarts, serving them breakfast after the strangest night of James’ life. James stomach rumbled loudly, and he accepted a plate from the house elf gratefully, loading it with food. Harry and Sirius did the same, both falling on their plates like starving men. He supposed Sirius was, in a way.

Sirius glanced up from where he was hunched over his plate to share a grin with Harry. “Anyone would think those Muggles weren’t feeding you.”

Harry hunched a shoulder, shovelling an enormous forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. He swallowed with visible effort. “Dudley’s on a diet. Aunt Petunia put us all on it so her little Diddykins wouldn’t feel hard done by.”

Sirius barked out a laugh, but James felt himself frowning. Harry was skinny enough as it was, scrawny with a pinched look about him. The last thing he needed was a diet.

“Dobby is leaving now, sirs!” the house elf announced, unfolding the bottom of the tray he was still holding to form it into a table. He settled the table into the space between their beds and Disapparated with a loud crack.

Sirius slathered butter onto his third slice of toast. “Strange friend you’ve got there, Harry.”

Harry nodded, helping himself to more bacon. “Dobby’s brilliant. He used to be the Malfoys’ house elf, but he’s free now.”

James raised his eyebrows, but Sirius voiced the question before he could. “The _Malfoys_ freed their house elf?” Many purebloods kept the same family of house elf for generations; the Malfoys were most certainly one of them. House elves were prone to overhearing unsavoury conversation that could be shared with anyone, should they be freed.

Harry looked shifty. “Not exactly. I sort of…” He gestured vaguely with his knife, “…tricked Mr. Malfoy into freeing him?”

“This,” said Sirius, pouring himself another glass of pumpkin juice, “sounds like an excellent story.”

Harry ducked his head. “It’s kind of a long one.”

“We’ve got time,” James said. “Your Aunt and Uncle aren’t expecting you back until this afternoon.”

His son pulled a face at that, too quick for James to decode, and shrugged. “Well, it started the summer before second year, when Dobby showed up in my bedroom.”

“At the Dursleys’?” Sirius was delighted.

James sat quietly, observing his son as he told them how Dobby had tried to stop him from returning to Hogwarts. This scrawny boy with Lily’s eyes who tricked Malfoys and befriended house elves. Maybe James hadn’t been there to raise him, but it seemed like he had turned out all right anyway. The thought stung.

He made himself breathe, once in, once out. Again. And again. There was time. He had lost so much of it, let it slip through his fingers without even knowing he held it in the first place, but there was time. He could learn who his son was. He could be there for him, and love him enough to make up for the thirteen years spent away.

He could fix this. He had to.

* * *

 

Two days later, James finally broke.

They had spent the time since returning Harry to the Dursleys’ fixing up his parents’ old house, the house James had grown up in. It was more of a manor, really, far too large for just James, Harry and Sirius, but it would do.

Walking back into his childhood home had been like walking back in time. Everything was just as his mother must have left it, now covered in a thick film of grey dust. Actual dust bunnies skittered away from him as he moved through the house, scrambling to hide beneath sofas and behind cabinets. The dust hung in the air, illuminated by the watery sunlight that forced its way through spots in the grime that coated in the windows. Portraits of old family members still hung on the walls, although most of them were slumbering. The few that were awake when James and Sirius walked into the house muttered amongst themselves, the whisper of their voices the only sound in the silent building.

James hugged his arms to himself, feeling all of seventeen again, standing in the doorway of the house after his father’s funeral. Somehow the cacophonous silence of the Potter manor brought the moment back to him full-force. There were ghosts here, in this old house. He didn’t know if he could bring his son here, to this place that he had grown up in and grown out of. The house his father had died in, the house his mother had abandoned when she took James’ place that night.

He had hesitated in the hallway just a moment too long, and a hearty clap to the back from Sirius jolted him back into the present. Sirius grinned at him, that carefree, wolfish grin that showed all of his teeth. “Remember any cleaning spells, Prongs? We’ll be needing them if you don’t want your son suffocating on all of the dust in here.” And he had strode into the parlour, wand in hand. James watched him go, mouth dry, remembering why they were here.

This wasn’t his parents’ home anymore. It was his, and it was Sirius’ and it was Harry’s. He could do this for his son.

He followed Sirius into the parlour, where already Sirius had scoured several layers of filth from the windows. Sunlight streamed in, chasing away the old memories.

How had James spent thirteen years without Sirius by his side? How had he ever lived without him?

James lifted his wand and got to work.

It was easy to lose himself in the rhythm of it all, of cleaning and organising and warding. They had spoken to Albus before they left Hogwarts, had been assured that Potter manor was indeed uninhabited. There were no Potters left to claim it, no distant family members to try and elbow their way in. Legally, the house belonged to Harry, although the boy had no idea the place existed. Albus had informed them that some of the old wards were still in place, although in need of reinforcement. Others had eroded, decayed away to nothing, and would need replacing.

There had been no mention of using the Fidelius Charm. James didn’t think that would last long.

So they fixed up the wards, wrapped the house in protection charms and Anti-Apparation spells and Muggle-repelling enchantments. Anything and everything that they thought would keep them safe.

It was on the second day of this, standing in the back garden, as James watched Sirius raise his arms to install one of the many protection charms, that he broke.

It was just like last time. That was the thing. For a moment as James looked at Sirius, all he could see was Lily.

She had done the protection for their little cottage in Godric’s Hollow. She was the best at Charms, top of their year. She was brilliant at everything, of course, but she excelled at Charms. It was incredible to see her work, so focused, so intent. She poured herself into everything she did. They might have been prisoners in their own home, scared and angry and cabin-feverish, but James had always felt just a little bit safer knowing that Lily had been the one to ward their home.

Lily wasn’t here to do it this time.

Part of him still couldn’t believe it, had filed it away in his mind to be dealt with later. After all, he wasn’t dead, despite what everyone thought. Why should Lily be?

Dumbledore had explained it to him, before they left Hogwarts. The blood protection wouldn’t have held if Lily wasn’t truly dead.

James wanted him to be wrong, but somehow he knew he wasn’t. Not about this.

He spun on his heel and stormed away from the house, down towards the small lake at the edge of the grounds. Sirius didn’t follow him, and he stopped at the bank of the lake, staring down into the still, clear water. The sun beat down on his neck, and he felt hot with rage and misery, his skin prickling with it. His sweat-soaked hands clenched at his sides.

He had proposed to Lily here.

It was Christmas, their final year of Hogwarts, and they were seventeen and scared and in love. James had stumbled over his words and Lily had laughed – Merlin, he loved her laugh – and hugged him and said _yes, yes, of course_. He had been ready for her to argue, to say that they were too young, that there was a war, that they weren’t ready. But all she had said was yes.

Sirius and Remus and Peter had been hiding in the copse of trees that bordered the Potter property. They had spilled out of the trees, whooping and cheering, had piled on top of James and Lily and it was as if nothing outside the five of them even existed. They had felt invincible.

The memory made him sick, now. A sob forced its way from his throat, harsh and painful. Another and another until he was racked with them, his body shuddering, his chest tight, his blood rushing in his ears. He sank to his knees, bowed his head, and cried.

It felt like years before he began to calm. When his awareness came back to him, he found Sirius sitting beside him, bare feet dipped in the water of the lake. They didn’t speak, didn’t touch, didn’t even look at each other. James swiped at his face with the back of his hand, skin raw and stinging from the tears he’d cried. If he had thought to hope, he might have hoped that crying would have made him feel better, but he just felt empty. Numb.

“Some days,” Sirius said at last, staring out across the lake, “I still can’t believe she’s gone. She was so strong, y’know? Strongest of any of us, I used to think.”

James shuddered in a deep breath, teeth knocking together. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye. She can’t be gone, because I didn’t get to say goodbye. I didn’t get to say anything.” He turned to look at Sirius, desperate to make him understand. “She’s my wife. She can’t be dead.”

Sirius nodded. “I know, mate.”

There was a flare of anger, then. How could Sirius know? He didn’t love Lily like James did.

Except that he did. Maybe he didn’t love her in the same way, but he loved her just as much. They had been like brother and sister in the end, finding in each other the relationship they could never have with their own estranged siblings. Sirius had always been welcome with James and Lily, never a third wheel or an unwanted guest. That was one of the things James loved about her, the way she understood how much Sirius meant. James could never have loved a girl that didn’t love his best friend.

“I don’t know if I can do this without her,” James said. He looked down at his hands, at the wedding band on his finger. How had he never noticed it there? Thirteen years spent as Kevin Northrop, an unattached man with no interest in dating, and he had never noticed he was wearing a wedding ring.

Sirius nodded again. “I know. But you have to.”

* * *

 

Harry paced back and forth in his bedroom.

It was only a few days until his dad and Sirius would be back to get him. A few days until he could spend the rest of the summer with them, away from the Dursleys, away from Privet Drive and the worst home he had ever known.

The thing was, a few days was far too long. More than enough time for them both to disappear. James had seemed to die in the space of one night. Sirius’ freedom had been ripped away from him in less than an hour. Anything could happen in three days.

What if they didn’t come back? What if Sirius was caught, taken back to Azkaban? What if his dad decided he wasn’t worth it, wasn’t worth the drama and the fear and the hiding? What if none of this had been real? What if it all really had been a trick?

Harry forced himself to sit down. He perched on the edge of his bed, palms on his thighs, and sucked in a deep breath through his nose.

Three days. That was all.

Dumbledore wouldn’t lie to him. His dad was alive, and wanted him. He just had to wait three more days.

Ink stained his fingers and crumpled up parchment littered his desk. He had started four different letters to both Ron and Hermione, and abandoned all of them, unable to find the words. Could he even tell them about any of this? It was a secret, but Harry told Ron and Hermione everything. He had the sense that Dumbledore knew that; there wasn’t much that Dumbledore didn’t know. Surely he would expect that Harry would tell his friends about this?

It wasn’t just that, though. Part of Harry was terrified that as soon as he put quill to parchment, as soon as he wrote it down, he would be proven wrong. As though acknowledging the truth of the situation would suddenly make it not so. He was so used to having the rug pulled out from underneath his feet, he didn’t know what to do now that things seemed to be going his way.

The Dursleys, of course, had been delighted at the news that Harry would be leaving, although Dumbledore had thought it wise not to mention who he would be staying with. Harry could still remember the mad glint in Aunt Petunia’s eyes three years ago when Harry had found out the truth about the so-called car crash that killed his parents. Aunt Petunia hated his dad with a violent passion; he didn’t like to think of her reaction if she found out he was alive.

In fact, it would probably be for the best if they never met at all. It would definitely be for the best if his dad and Sirius never saw the locks on his bedroom door or the cat flap that Uncle Vernon had installed two summers ago. It was bad enough that the Weasleys knew about the bars that had been on his window. Nobody else needed to know.

* * *

 

_CRACK!_

Harry’s feet slammed into the ground and his knees buckled, Dumbledore’s hand on his arm the only thing keeping him from falling. His stomach rolled with nausea and he groaned as he steadied himself.

“Unfortunately, Side-Along Apparation is not the most pleasant method of travelling,” Dumbledore was saying, “but I thought it wise not to attach the Dursleys’ fireplace to the Floo network. It might raise questions we are not yet equipped to answer. Sirius has fixed the wards to allow certain trusted people access via Apparation, instead.”

Harry swallowed, waiting for his stomach to settle itself, and stared up at the house in front of him. House was too tame a word, really. It was enormous and stately, looming over him. He had known his parents had money, judging from the fortune that sat in his Gringotts account, but Harry had never really stopped to think about what that meant. This was truly something else. Dumbledore smiled down at him. “Shall we?” Without waiting for a response, the professor walked up to the door, levitating Harry’s trunk along behind him. On shaky legs, Harry followed.

Dumbledore raised a hand to knock, but before he could the door swung open to reveal Sirius. He was clean shaven, and his hair was trimmed into a neater cut than the last time Harry had seen him. A grin broke out across his face and Sirius stepped aside to let them in. “Harry! Professor! Brilliant, come in.”

“I think we can dispense with the formalities,” Dumbledore said as he crossed the threshold. “I have not been your headmaster for some time. Please, call me Albus.”

Sirius nodded absently and turned to holler up the staircase, which was wide and- was it made of _marble_? Aunt Petunia would probably have sold _Dudley_ for a house like this. “JAMES! Harry’s here!”

There was a clatter from upstairs and a series of thumps. “Coming!”

Still grinning, Sirius tugged Harry into a hug. Harry couldn’t remember ever being hugged as often as he had in the past week. “C’mere, you.”

They stepped apart as the thud-thud-thud of footsteps came down the stairs, and Harry looked up to see his dad, somewhat dishevelled but smiling.

“Harry! Hi!”

Harry stared at him, feeling somehow caught off-guard. “Hi, Dad.” The word was a strange one to say, difficult to fit his tongue around. For years it had been almost a sacred title and to say it so casually now felt wrong.

James didn’t seem fazed, and swept Harry into a hug. “Missed you, kid.”

Missed him? Harry frowned a little. It was strange to be in a house where he was actually wanted.

“Missed you too,” he said, because it was true even if he felt awkward saying it. His dad had said it first, right? So it was okay.

James pulled away and ruffled his hair, another move that took Harry by surprise. “Thanks for bringing him over, Albus,” James said, taking a hold of Harry’s trunk. “I guess everything went fine with the Dursleys?”

“They were thrilled,” Harry assured him, and didn’t miss the brief look that passed between James and Sirius.

“Well, so are we,” said Sirius. “You’re gonna love the house, Harry. It’s old, but I promise it’s not that haunted.”

“It’s not haunted at all!” James was indignant.

Sirius shrugged. “Well, something’s doing a lot of shrieking and wailing up in the attic, and it’s not me. Don’t worry, Harry,” here he grinned roguishly and wrapped an arm around Harry’s shoulder, “I’ll watch your back. It probably prefers deer, anyway.”

“Nothing in this house has ever tried to eat me.” James pointed a stern finger at Sirius.

“I am sure,” broke in Dumbledore, “that whatever creatures may inhabit this house are nothing the three of you’s considerable talents cannot handle.” His eyes twinkled. “I must take my leave, I have matters to attend to at the castle.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. Thanks again, Albus,” said James.

They took a few minutes to say goodbye, and before they knew it the three of them were alone once more. Silence hung in the air for a moment.

“Better get your stuff upstairs, eh?” said James, waving his wand at Harry’s trunk. It bobbed up into the air, followed by Hedwig’s empty cage and Harry’s broomstick. James stared at it in awe. “That is some broom.”

Harry grinned. “It’s a Firebolt. Sirius got it for me!”

James stroked a hand over the polished handle, transfixed. “I have got to get one of these.”

“Well, Harry’s on the Quidditch team,” Sirius said as they headed upstairs. “He’s got to have the best.”

“You’re on the Quidditch team?” James turned to Harry with delight.

Harry nodded, feeling on safer ground with Quidditch talk. “I’m the Seeker.”

“Youngest Seeker in a century, more like,” Sirius said. “I watched him fly last year, he’s brilliant.”

Harry did not mention that last year he had lost his first ever Quidditch match, had fallen nearly a hundred feet from his broom and had lost his Nimbus 2000 to the Whomping Willow.

“In a _century_?” James began to lead them down a long corridor. The floor was still marble, the walls lined with cream wallpaper and several old portraits.

Harry nodded, looking around as they walked. “McGonagall let me on the team in first year after she saw me fly. Apparently they _really_ needed a Seeker.”

James smiled at him, a strange expression on his face. “I played Chaser, myself. I’d love to see your next match.”

His dad? Watching him fly? Harry felt a funny swooping sensation in his stomach, a mix of nerves and excitement at the idea. “Yeah, that’d be great.”

“Here we go!” Sirius swung open a door at the end of the hallway, and James levitated Harry’s possessions into the room. Harry followed them, and stopped short.

The room was easily twice the size of his bedroom at the Dursleys’, with walls painted a rich red. A four-poster bed not unlike his one at Hogwarts sat beneath a wide window through which sunlight streamed, offering a view of the huge garden below. Harry stepped into the room, his feet sinking into the plush carpet. Shelves lined the walls, mostly empty. On the bedside table was a framed photograph, and Harry picked it up.

His mum stared back at him. She was laughing and trying to cover the camera with her hand. Another hand appeared periodically from out of frame to push it aside, revealing her once more, still laughing even as she tried to feign irritation. She was perhaps eighteen in the photo, still wearing her Hogwarts robes, although an engagement ring glistened on one finger. Harry swallowed down a well of emotion, blinking very rapidly as he put the photo down.

“Is it okay?” Harry glanced over his shoulder to see his dad wearing an anxious expression, which was insane, because this was the best room he had ever had. Not that the cupboard under the stairs, or Dudley’s second bedroom, or the Gryffindor dormitory that smelled too often of Seamus’ dirty socks put up a great competition, but still.

“This is brilliant,” he said, grinning. His dad’s face split into a matching grin, and Sirius clapped him on the shoulder.

“See, what did I tell you?” he said, and James pushed him away.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on, Harry, I’ll show you around.”

Still smiling, Harry followed his dad back out into the hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, drop me a comment and let me know what you thought!


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